


Helictite

by taenia



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taenia/pseuds/taenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas does not know what to say, or rather, he does not know how to say it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helictite

It has been a long time since Legolas has given any thought to stone. Rock, in as much of he thinks of it, is a solid, immutable thing. Rock is the bone of Arda, a foundation for other things.

But Gimli reminds him that bones must grow, and that they can be broken.

When the king finally leaves them alone, with nothing but a torch and the encroaching dark of Aglarond, Gimli begins to explain the things that he is seeing. Limestone comes from shell, the heart of the sea is mixed into these caves. Water and time have done the rest, flowering into shining pillars and translucent pink and white curtains that twist from the rock. He wants to brush his fingers against the tiny bubbling crystals of the cave wall, in the way that he would finger the petals of a flower or the trailing leaves of a willow. He wants to connect to this place, to understand these shocking surprises of the bones and blood of the earth.

Gimli takes his hand though, before he can touch the mossy growth of crystal on the wall.

“You’ll break them,” he says, gruffly.

After several caves of water and pearl in stone, he leads Legolas through a low archway of coarse white rock.

And in this new chamber, Gimli extinguishes his torch. There is a hole in the roof of the cave, and sunlight, impossibly bright and pure in its color, illuminates the floor and near walls. Legolas can see twisting brown roots holding firm to the edges of this crack in the earth; incomprehensibly far above them, green ferns bend down, water dripping steadily from their leaves.

He can see a little ways into the gloom; instead of the reddish pink glow from reflected firelight that he is used to (as much as he can get used to this strange garden of stone), the walls of the cave are grey and white, reminding him of moonlight on water.

Gimli is looking carefully at the surrounding stone, apparently wavering in some kind of indecision. It is hard to read his face behind his beard, even if Legolas knew how to read the dwarf’s expressions well; he does not. Finally, though, Gimli nods, and sets down his pack. From somewhere within he produces a flint and a little bit of kindling; very carefully he begins to build a fire. Legolas watches his craft, approving of the dwarf’s carefulness, the skill he shows with his hands. The elves he knows would build this fire with magic; it is a simple thing to tell the wood to burn. The men he knows would build first too hot and then too cool, creating an inconstant, mutable flame. Gimli is a dwarf, though, and he simply builds the fire as he would build any other thing; there is exactly enough wood for it to burn as long as he likes, with dull and sputtering flames just large enough to give a little warmth, and to throw flickering orange shadows across the walls of the cave.

“We can spend the night here,” says Gimli. “That crack above has let in enough wind and water that we need not worry about destroying the rock with smoke from the fire. In the morning, we will press a little further, I think, before we turn back.” His eyes shine in the reflected firelight, and he continues. “I would stay here longer, far longer … But I have promised to walk in Fangorn with you, elf.”

Legolas nods. He does not know what to say, or rather, he does not know how to say it. If Gimli were an elf, everything would be easy. They would have no need of words; emotion and intensity would simply be known quantities, to be acted upon when the time was right.

“I am thinking,” says Gimli suddenly, “of Lorien.” His eyes are sad, Legolas thinks. “You were wrong, when you told me that the memory would remain forever clear, for already my mind is shadowed, and I do not remember well how it felt to be near the Lady, though I remember that it touched me deeply.”

Legolas does not know what to say, but he tries to offer comfort. “You still bear the lady’s gift, do you not? Look upon it, if you will, and perhaps it will remind you of that place, and of the sorrowless joy that comes from looking at sunlight on golden leaves.”

Gimli does not stir, nor does he move towards his pack, where Legolas knows that he keeps the lock.

After several moments, Gimli turns towards Legolas. “In truth, elf,” he says, “the memory is not what it was, for I find that I have changed much since the fall of the Shadow. Lorien fades, more quickly even than my memory of it, and my heart thinks it folly to cling to a love that cannot long endure, for that love will soon depart into the West, and I will never know the fullness of it, if such a thing were even possible.”

Legolas nods, very slowly. He is conscious, suddenly, of the crushed shells that surround him. He is overwhelmed by the sea, and in that moment, he wants nothing more than to find a boat and go west, west until his sorrow drowns in grey waves, and there is nothing in his heart but sunlight and growing things. “The longing for Valinor,” he says, “Is strong in us. I understand it a little; I imagine that Galadriel feels it all the stronger, for the undying lands are her home, and all places in Middle Earth, even Lothlorien, are but poor shadows of that place.”

A long pause draws out between them. “I was not speaking,” Gimli says, finally, “of Galadriel. That fair lady taught me the value of the Wood, and my friendship with her will last as long as Dwarves can remember the value of beauty and grace, but it is not in her that my heart found rest.”

Slowly, Gimli reaches across the low fire, to touch Legolas’ hand with his own.

Legolas is surprised by the hardness of his fingertips; they are unyielding as granite, and even this delicate touch feels like it could break through oak.

His long, bone-white fingers curl around the Dwarf’s outstretched hand, and suddenly he finds that even though Gimli is not an elf, they have no need for words.

**Author's Note:**

> A helictite is a type of cave formation (like a stalagmite or stalactite) whose direction of growth changes from straight up and down to another angle, giving it a weird-as-hell bendy shape. They're cool.


End file.
